


The Thing That Broke

by queercateer



Category: Assassins - Sondheim/Weidman
Genre: Assassination, Assassination Attempt(s), M/M, major character death but they're all in limbo so does it really matter?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 01:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12738240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercateer/pseuds/queercateer
Summary: The Carnival doesn't care who you are.Whether a racist southern actor, a bumbling soccer mom, or a traumatized laborer, it will sing promises of a sweet victory but then drag you down, sucking the very life out of your lungs until you are left cold & barren & sinking into the abyss.What happens when one man attempts to swim up?A fic exploring the history of Leon Czolgosz, and his intense, desperate connection with a man he loved: as told through the eyes of The Balladeer. Written for someone who knew nothing of the show, so some scenes are detailed for context.





	The Thing That Broke

He didn’t know the word for it, but what would be a never-ending night sky painted with pinpricks of a soft stars slumbering wasn’t there - instead, an empty husk, a void, bruskly bruised with the bitterest shade of black. He knew why, at least. Suspended about two-or-three-hundred feet in the air - the top of the Ferris wheel, he could gaze down as far as he would like, over the edge, over the wheel, over the entire Carnival. 

Thousands of bulbs lit the area, reds and whites and oranges and yellows (not one blue, never blue. the color of the baseball cap fit snugly on his head, the charred flannel tightly buttoned shut, even his jeans. the color that set him apart from the rest, marking him an enemy, a traitor) - dancing, singing, celebrating on thin strings woven from one end to the next. They battled valiantly against the pacifist night, and were in a clear victory.

Light Pollution.

The term drifted in his head without notice. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, bits and pieces of information (an old life?) gifting him access ever since he materialized doused in stage lights.

Purgatory, he later learned, was an inadequate definition for the gated community of rickety attractions operated by some mysterious force, junk food made fresh for eternity, and a clown-faced Carnie leading eight other souls on a fruitless quest.

“Limbo”, the Carnie (not human, he reasoned. he couldn’t be.) specified, so light and fragile and full of air that he was afraid the word might burst. “A place not suspended in any time or plane. A place for y’all fed up with the ‘good ol’ US of A’; a place for those who want to make a difference and have their righteous deed recorded - you will become history!”

The fat, grinning man’s idea of ‘righteous deed’ involved one act - the cold-blooded assassination of the President, whoever it happens to be where they fit in time.

A dapper southern actor (a racist, his mind booed and hissed) - Johnny Booth - made a deal with the Carnie, or so he had heard, and after that first fateful fatal shot to the back of Abraham Lincoln’s head, the Carnival sparked to life.

He materialized directly after it had happened, just in time to witness Booth gaze upon the new plane, not remorseful, not regretting, simple spine-chilling eagerness wallowing across the mustached face, eyes spread open, as if he were seeing the happily horrid future put into motion. 

“The Balladeer” the Carnie explained to Booth, pointing to him, “A spiritual embodiment of the American Dream.” (how did he know this? was that true?). “A pitiful necessity - for keeping the game fair and balanced. You know.” He opened his mouth, ready with a flurry of questions of who he was, but before he could even start, he was shooed away by both of them, not wanting for the pest to interrupt ‘the proceedings’.

He tried to recall his name, his real name (did he have one?) - what was it? He was a person, right? Wasn’t he? Or truly just a spirit like that clown-faced demon?

Unknowing and unsure, he clung to the monicker, choosing the uneasy explanation over complete anonymity.

Music crept in, he recognized it as ‘Hail to the Chief’ - a theme for the President, except this time, it was slowed down, twisted, bouncing, laughing, openly mocking the man in charge. 

Soon after, seven others wallowed through the gates, wary for what lay ahead. The Carnie greeted each as cash wadded in their hands swapped for a cold metal gun faster than he can see.

 

A bespectacled man skeptical of the spectacle, a too-big pilot jacket hanging off of his shoulders, clutching to a picture of some woman (jodie foster, he heard, an actress) as if it were his child. A bearded religious zealot - much too happy about what he was about to do. A wailing Italian midget complaining of stomach pains. A heavy man clothed in a Santa Claus outfit, resting a sign on his shoulder stating: ‘All I want for Christmas are my constitutional rights!’. A young woman hidden in a red robe - the Carnie tried to dissuade her, but a quick knife held against his throat sealed the deal. A bumbling, middle aged soccer mom in a pantsuit bumping into everything she sees, nearly accidentally setting off her new gun into the crowd when she first fit her little finger ‘round the trigger.

And lastly, him.

A plain weary laborer, his jacket not much more than soiled brown rags stitched together, a vest eaten alive by moths and wear, oak slacks that hung like a noose on a condemned man. Everything about him was dirt-colored, his eyes, his hair, the clothes, the shoes, the dust caking his face, the aura suffocating him - he was born of it and looked like he’d be back to it soon enough, either by his own hand or by that of a merciful onlooker.

The Carnie quickly encroached on the man, waving the gun in his face, as if it were a bountiful prize, something only a fool would resist.

He couldn’t hear the conversation, but the man (leon, a whisper suggested) seemed put off with the idea, even frightened that it was ever brought up. They grumbled, and he was able to hear the last words said as the Carnie grew louder, “...what would she think?”

That caused a reaction in the laborer - standing, shock-still, barely breathing. 

“She’d hate you for giving up such a glorious opportunity like this. She’d be ashamed.” followed by the Carnie caressing the other’s cheekbone with the barrel of the gun. “You wouldn’t want that, now would you?”

Wide-eyed, shaking, he whispered,

‘H-how much?’

‘Four-fifty. An Iver-Johnson .32. Rubber handles! Owls stamped on the sides!’

‘Alright.’ Cash, as weathered as the man, changed hands - like magic; see as the Clown-Man turned paper into silver and desperation into motivation.

‘G-give me’.

With that, he was off, even more unsure and afraid than before. 

It wasn’t long before Booth stole the attention of the crowd, and began explaining his ‘game’.  
The Carnie would spin a wheel with names (nixon, mckinley, kennedy, ford, others), like so, and whoever belonged to the era it matched with would get their turn. 

He slowly turned the wheel, unsurprisingly landing on Lincoln.

A ‘Re-Enactment’ he called it, as the faerie lights wavered, flickered, melted, blinding them all until the assassins found themselves seated in the front row of an auditorium, awaiting the coming attraction.

‘The man in question would be represented by a tarp with a figure. Hit bullseye,’ as Booth proceeded to do up in a higher booth, the gun firing at the back of the tarp, piercing the head, ‘and you will be celebrated!’ 

He jumped down from the section onto the stage, shouting “Sic semper tyrannis!” with his gun raised high in the air, then bowing - enamored with the thunderous applause from the fake-audience, blanketed in golden light and red streamers parading in from the ceiling.

This enraged the Balladeer, of course. How dare he do this? To make a game out of the act of assassination - it was unpatriotic at best and downright malicious at worst. And to rope these innocents in as well! He couldn’t allow this to continue, he couldn’t just stand here and not do anything, he couldn’t -

Gently, he felt a tap on his shoulder, halting the angered stupor. He turned around.

A group of enthusiastic men and women (bystanders - another voice recommended) stood in a tightly knit group, appropriately dressed in vaguely-historical civil war getups.

One of them, a woman, pointed towards the stage, awaiting the coming attraction.

The look of confusion spreading across his face led to another gesture from the woman - this time, to a lightning blue acoustic guitar strung on his back (it had never been there. it had always been there).

It came to him - he knew what must be done.

The Balladeer strode on stage, interrupting Booth’s curtain call and stealing the spotlight, the Bystanders not far behind, apprehending the actor and setting up accompanying instruments. He took the guitar and began to strum, as if he had practiced this a million times over, smoothly fiddling with a tune about ‘Johnny Booth, the Handsome Devil’.

He sang, they played, the audience laughed at each quick quip he slung at Booth. The Assassins in front appeared uneasy, unsure - this is not what they were expecting at all. Most of all, the Carnie looked like he would strangle the life out of him, if he could only get close enough.

The laborer’s - er, Leon’s face, however, nearly shook him and stopped the song. He didn’t look angry, or scared, or content, like anybody else in the audience. No, his face bore an expression of a man that has seen a ghost - eyes locked with the Balladeer, skin drained of any color, and tears welling in his eyes, mouthing a word he couldn’t make out. 

It must have been the music, he wagered, continuing his musical campaign against Booth for the audience. At any rate, the high emotional state of the laborer would make it easier to convince him to escape this place. If he could get even just one person out, it would be a clear victory.

The ‘scene’ continued, the Bystanders replaying the events of Booth’s death, and taking him through it - ending with a climatic finish: a devoted union soldier, played by the same woman who gestured the Balladeer on, aiming for the back of his head with a prop rifle and firing. Immediately, the colors of the world bled together, a plethora of sounds crescendoing into unintelligible noise, then everything stopped, the Carnival taking it’s place - still the same, save for a blustering Booth clutching the bleeding back of his head and storming off.

One last warning of ‘mad men like him accomplish seldom but their own destruction’ and he played the finishing chord on his guitar, the Bystanders whooping, cheering, and clapping with joy. With that, he marched away, confident in the way things would play out.

Some of the Assassins looked pensive, changed even, he thought. Yes, some may take some extra convincing (namely, the religious fanatic, the pained italian, and the cloaked woman), but he was making a difference, wasn’t he? He could put an end to this game before it even started - saving these poor people before they could make the worst decision of their lives.

He thought that would be the end of it.

And yet here he was. Still stuck in this hellscape of dreams, the Ferris wheel easing him to the ground. They didn’t listen. They refused to, clinging hopelessly to the idea that this act will save them, make them into some kind of a hero. 

He didn’t even have the Bystanders for support - of course, they were in the Carnival with him, but they were not much more than stone - they moved around, silently, not making any meaningful eye contact, until the very moment the wheel landed on a name, starting the game and bringing them to life. 

The Italian man went first (the wheel said ‘fdr’, he missed, smothered in red lights, a blaring horn, and laughter), followed by the loverboy clutching to the actress’s photo (the wheel said ‘reagan’, he missed too - somehow ending by shooting up the hall of mirrors, screaming bloody murder). Booth, disappointed yet not hopeless, suggested a few days of ‘target practice’ to increase the odds and lighten the mood.

The area for the shooting gallery stretched for ten meters, a pole stretching horizontally holding up blanket-sized tarps with monstrous silhouettes painted on, daring for some ‘brave champion’ to pace in and defeat the ‘enemy’ - bold gold lettering proudly proclaiming ‘SHOOT THE PREZ - WIN A PRIZE’, each phrase hanging off of the polar ends of the booth. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed them before.

It was empty when he first entered the Ferris wheel, pondering on his origin here, but now returning to the pavement he spotted most of the Assassins - each with their own tarp, ready to fire. 

“Now,” Booth began. “I now realize you all may not be as… strategic as I was. Meaning that some of you will be very far away from your target.” He crossed his hands behind his back, raising an eyebrow. “However, this is no excuse for faliure.” A thick glare permeated into the previous attempters. “To make sure you all are prepared for any situation you may find yourselves stuck in -” He snapped as the pole that held the tarps up traveled a good ways back, far enough as to where the Balladeer could not make out any details. “- the targets for practice will always be at least fifty feet away.” He turned, chin tilting up, a grin crawling up his cheek. “Any questi-?”

“Jugnatz?” Someone with a heavy accent asked, whispering.

The Balladeer turned, no longer listening to the madman. 

It was Leon who was close by, hands fiddling with a brown newsboy cap, twisting and bending it, as nervous a man as he had ever seen.

“Sorry?” He cocked his head.

“Uh -” Leon turned, breathing quickly. “D-do you remember me? Jugnatz?” His eyes flitted up, a hint of a skittish smile - he was a tremendously tall man, much more so than the Balladeer, and in no way weak, but hunched over just so that he would be looking up. One who captured the stature of a bruiser, but who painted the posture of a kicked puppy-dog, pained brown eyes sparkling blue in the faerie lights.

He took a step back, eyeing the other cautiously. “What the hell? Who’s - ?” He reached for the odd name, snapping his fingers as if to try to magically weave it back. “- Mugnahs?”

“No, I, er, I mean. I, uh.” The other man started shaking, shifting in the spot. “I just thought. That you.” The way he was grasping his cap, rubbing his fingers back and forth and back and forth should have already worn holes, but somehow it stayed intact, just dancing on the verge of fraying. “The thing I wanted to say is. You. You just.” His eyes flickered around, from bulb to bulb, fluttering in the air and too terrified to meet the other’s gaze.

“Just look so much like him. You cannot be someone else. You -”

“Are, you sure, Sara?” The cloaked woman yelled, interrupting the two.

“Don’t worry, I got this!”

They both glanced up, toward the Ferris wheel. The soccer-mom (moore, a voice reminded) somehow situated herself two-hundred feet high, up in the top cart, aiming her gun (a .38 caliber revolver, he recognized) at one of the tarps in the Gallery.

“If I can get ‘im from this high, that’ll give me enough time to be back in the car to pick Billy up from Little League by six!”

Booth was already on her, waving his hands wildly in the air, hoping that in some way it would be able to dissuade her.

But it was too late. Bullets began whizzing through the air, going this and that and every way except for bullseye. 

The Balladeer barely had time to react before he felt a firm grip on his wrist and a tight tug away from it all - the Carnival becoming a colorful blur as he was deftly dragged into a building.

As soon as he took his first breath he found hands patting all over him, worries remarks echoing in the small room.

“Are you okay? Did you trip on the way here? Did one of the bullets hit you? Are you bleeding at all? Can you talk? What is -”

“I’m okay! I’m okay!” He interjected, grabbing Leon’s wrists and holding them tight in front of him. “I’m fine, no need to worry. Jesus.” The laborer didn’t look satisfied, but uncomfortably settled, at least for now. Now able to take note of the area they were in, he discovered that it was a miniscule movie theater - nine plush seats filed out in rows of three each way. A paper screen unfolded from the ceiling, encapsulating the wall opposite them. There were no stairs to climb to an upper area, yet he saw an even smaller room blocked off above them, with a tiny hole facing the screen.

“Let’s -” He took one last glance of the room, then turned back towards the door. “- get back out there, alright? I’m feeling a little caved in.” Chuckling at his own remark, the Balladeer started for the door, almost at the handle, but the loud noise of a projector whirring to life stopped him in his tracks. 

Light streamed in from the upstairs hole as a color picture played, sound swirling around the room. It had already attracted Leon, as he quickly set himself down in the middle seat in the last row.

“What is this?” He asked, enraptured with the strange occurrence.

“Oh, this?” The Balladeer hardly wanted to stay, but, on the other hand, the other man was entirely caught in his grip at the moment. If he played his cards right, he could have him with his things and out the gates forever in just a few minutes. He crept forward, taking the seat to the right and resting his legs on top of the seat in front. 

“People call this a movie theater. They come here, sit down, usually with popped corn and candy and sodas. Then that thing starts - ” he said, pointing to the room upstairs “- and little pictures start playing really fast. It makes it look like whatever is on them is moving, but don’t worry, it’s only pictures.” Punctuating it with a light little laugh at the end, he focused back on the screen. “The pictures usually come with audio and tell a story, like - I remember one about a group of people madly chasing after a goal - I think it was a couple of hundreds of thousands of dollars? It had the word ‘mad’ in the title.’”

The place shut him up, a soft violin waltzing out of the speakers, the screen glowing with an almost airy anticipation, going from a stark white to a blend of greens and blues until they were able to make it out; DRYER’S SALOON, EARLY 1897, text read, as the shot panned out to a crowded bar, circular wooden tables populating the area. The shot rested on a man (it was leon, but he could barely make him out - yes, he still wore the dirt-covered look, but gone was the dejected, depressed, near deceased man sitting left of him. no, in comparison, this man was filled with vigor and life, a shining smile splayed ‘cross his face) in a corner far away from any activity. 

A newspaper laid on the table appeared to catch his interest, at least, that’s how he presented himself. His real attention revealed itself in the quick yet fervid glances he stole from the doorway. He was waiting for someone, even turning down an offer of a card game. Leon flipped the page, a facade of studious intent hanging off of his face, just as the camera swiveled to the door - another man walked in. The Balladeer took one glance, then covered his mouth with his hand.

It was himself.

Well, not exactly him. The screen didn’t state ‘the Balladeer walked in’ or anything, nor was he wearing the infamous blue cap, flannel, or jeans; but the hair was still brown-black, encrusted in coal dust. The face matched, slim lips a quiet red, bulky nose barely bent to the left, eyes still a greyish-blue as they scanned the room. The physical features were almost a perfect match; the only difference being that if he were put through grueling labor each hour for each day, but never quite giving up that charismatic optimism . His look finished off with a blue set of overalls weighing down his torso, covering his legs before being folded in a muddled pile in thick boots.

He harbored no doubt; this was him, he was this. They were one and the same. The emotion stirring in his chest was very much alike the one he assumed Leon had felt at that first glance on stage. But then, why such an attachment? Leon didn’t seem the type of man to hold many people close to him, no, much the opposite: just as aloof and friendless as you’d might expect from a someone sitting alone at a bar. 

He concluded that he must have been an only friend, a sole confidant, perhaps. What else could there be?

A minute of scouring the place ended in the locking of eyes between Leon and the man, both exchanging a knowing smile and relaxing breath. In just a few moments he was away from the door and into one of the corner seats - for a minute or so, they said nothing, simply taking the image of one another in. Leon broke the silence.

“Jugnatz.” A smile spread between his cheeks, and he glanced down, then up again. “You look better than usual.” A beat. Realization. “Er - I do not mean you look bad all the time, I just -”

“I get it.” He chuckled, turned his head towards the center of the bar, carefully checked for conspicuous characters who might have their eye on them, then moved his hand below the table, resting it on the other’s leg. They continued to converse, leaning as close across the table as two ‘good friends’ could get without raising suspicions.

The hints were not as subtle as they should have been, but it took mountain of banter between the two to fit the pieces together for the Balladeer. 

An audible gasp. “We, uh, we were.” He shifted in his seat, eyes flickering back and forth between the screen and the man to the left of him. “We both were-”

“Yes.” Leon finished. A sheepish smile. Then, fear. “Do you, uh.” Now it was his time to feel nervous. “You still feel…?”

He didn’t make eye contact. If this was true, it explained away at least half of his questions. He didn’t know why he was here specifically, but it gave a glimpse of the past life. He still didn’t understand what led Leon to consider such an extreme idea, but he knew why the laborer acted like a pounded little puppy, bouncing around and lavishing any praise or affection.

The complete and utter relief he felt earlier on gave way to dragging doubt. It felt - it feels sort of right? But something just didn’t fit, like an old glove that fits just too tight - he had too many questions. But what other choice did he have? To continue on with this persona of a spirit? To let loose a potential answer just because he had some lingering nagging thoughts?

And still, he had a job to do. Even if he wasn’t sure of his identity, Leon was - who still, mind you, was the owner of a gun and stuck in ‘assassination carnival limbo’, or whatever the hell that Carnie wanted to call this thing. He still needed a way to convince him that it was worthwhile to leave. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could even get the other riled up enough to take this whole thing down with him.

A breath. He looked back at him.

“I do.”

Leon’s face sparked with a pure ecstasy, relief flooding over his face as he grabbed the Balladeer’s face and closed in any available space between them.

The doubt he felt retreated as soon as his lips were on Leon’s. This felt nice. This felt good. This felt right. He enjoyed this! He soon found his hands raised from his sides to tracing the other’s cheekbone, pulling him in even closer than he thought was possible, relishing in the moment.

This affair lasted for a few minutes, as the movie characters ceased their conversation and the scene ended. They proceeded to break into heavy breaths, spreading apart and sharing a glance.

Then, a thought.

“Leon.” The Balladeer gently grasped the other’s forearm, concern newly born on his face. “Why are we here?”

“I -” He paused for a moment, the answer easy but underlying uneasiness crawling through. “We were told. Told to. Told to shoot the -”.

“Yes, I know that.” Putting aside the immediate contradiction of being told by the Carnie he was ‘the spirit of the american dream’, and not one of the assassins, he probed further. “Why would we do that? We were - we are happy. Why would we be stuck here of all places?”

Leon bit his lip and sunk back further in the chair, crossing his arms.

“What am I missing?”

At that moment, a bellowing static crept out of the speakers and splattered on the screen - dissipating into a brown mess, text saying ‘MIDSUMMER 1898. CZOLGOSZ RESIDENCE. LATTIMER, PENNSYLVANIA’. A Leon, still nowhere near the mess he was now, but getting there, panically switched glances between the window and his bed. A period of this led to heavy breathing, pacing the floor - eventually, a break, him collapsing up against the wall, breaking into a success of shivering sobs.

“What - what happened?” The Balladeer asked, but received no identifiable response until he turned, lured in by gasps, witnessing Leon in the exact same state as the man above, snivelling, crying, curled up into himself.

“One - one day you - you stopped. Coming to the bar. No warning. I looked.” A heavy breath in. “Looked for you. I asked around. Every day. No one had seen you. Went to the house. Went to the - the mine.” A turn of the head. “It was - was this moment that. That I realized. You. You must have. Must have.”

He couldn’t complete the sentence, but the theater took over, a bellowing sound of rocks descending, breaking, falling in on one another.

A cave-in.

“C-could not be sure but. But you. You were the only person who I. I truly cared for. And you. You were just.”

“Gone.” The word send Leon straight for the warmth of the Balladeer's chest, arms clutching around his body, releasing one final gasp of air before quieting down, weeping into the flannel. In return, he wrapped his arms around Leon’s head, gifting a soft kiss to the forehead.

They sat there, breathing together, for just a moment, in a pure perfect silence. 

“I am sorry. I should not be - Should not act like this.” Leon raised himself up back into the seat, wiping at his eyes and giving off a small chuckle. “I am a grown man, not a little child. I. I just.” He grabbed at the other’s hand, interlocking their fingers and sighing. “Just missed you. So much. I did not know what to do.”

“What lead you to -” The Balladeer waved his hand, gesturing vaguely to the entire carnival. 

“I, uh.” He chuckled again, using his left sleeve to dry off the last bit of tears. “After you disappeared. After you left I drifted around, turning to anyone, anything for support. My brother suggested giving it all up to God.” A look up to the ceiling. “I tried. I prayed. They told me praying would fix everything if it was His will.” He squeezed his hand. “But nothing came. So, I gave Him up.” A sigh. “When you were gone, I felt so -”

“Depressed?”

“- so sad, yes, but angry as well. I was angered!” Leon tensed up, shifted his body and hardening his expression. “You lived and probably died in a job in which no one cared for you. In which you were not given the care which you deserved. You worked, like I, like all of us, for long grueling hours with nothing more than pennies to show for it! While men, no worthier than us, fill their pockets and feed their guts on the pain of our labor! Aren’t you at least a little... riled?” His eyes scanned the Balladeer’s, hoping for even a smidge of support.

“I mean, of course, but -“ He didn’t really remember, but the description did make his blood boil. And he could see the trail of thought - an extremely empathetic person like Leon would do something crazy with the pain of a thousand workers. But, the planned taking of a human life? Even if one that supported the mass exploitation of the poor, they didn’t deserve to die for a cause, right? He unlocked his hand from Leon’s, wringing it and straightening his back. “But you can't use that as grounds to murder someone! Jesus, who even gave you that idea?”

“Oh - well.” A mixture of emotions settled in Leon, embarrassment, pain, nostalgia as he quickly reached into a pocket, discovering a well-worn pamphlet - a simplified dissertation on Anarchism by some woman named Emma Goldman.

“As I said, religion held nothing for me. I looked in other places. Leftists. Socialists. Anarchists. People who saw our struggle and wanted to make a difference.” He opened the pamphlet, tiny annotations precisely scribbled on every place on the page, one on top of the other - as to where it would be nearly impossible to make out the original writing.

He watched as he scanned “Then, I met her.” The screen flickered, jumpstarted back to life - this time, a softer light. Not the intense saturation of the Jugnatz scene, nor the hazy barren browns of Leon’s breakdown. Now it was glowing a gentle, muted gold, the true colors just breaking through. The last scene, text announcing “EARLY 1900. ANARCHIST RALLY. CHICAGO.”  
A crowd of hundreds, maybe thousands, of people fixed around a single point: a woman situated on a soapbox, short statured and heavyset with a tight dress and clumsy spectacles, but imbued with a great sort of raw power, deadset in the middle of her impassioned speech.

“What does a man do -” she asked, her arms outstretched. “- when before his eyes he sees a vision of a new hope dawning for his toiling, agonizing brothers?” She tightly held up in the air a pamphlet, the pamphlet, the one Leon held so lovingly. In response, the crowd gave a wild cheer, raising their own fists in solidarity. “What does a man do -” She returned the paper to her side, clutching her other fist. “- when he realizes his suffering is caused not by the cruelty of fate?” The camera zoomed into the crowd - focusing on a laborer - Leon, again. This time, he was the closest to his real self, lowly and death-faced, but still, he showed complete enrapturement with the words resounding out of the woman’s mouth. “But by the injustice of his fellow human being?” She scanned the faces of the masses, taking a deep breath in to sound out her next line. “What does he do? What does he - !”

A shrill whistle bled through the crowd, panic, suddenly an army of policemen with heavy batons, craftily cracking them over the head of whomever was within reach. Fear crawled over Goldman’s face as she wasted no time in locating her escape. Pitifully, she was too late. Policemen surrounded her, grabbed her arm, then brutishly yanked it to the floor. She fell with a cry - snap - a broken arm.

The movie Leon already was moving in her direction, an attempt to somehow help his hero - it was of no use. One of the brutes who pulled her down turned, and locked eyes with him. He had no choice. Hurriedly, Leon ran, away from the demonstration and into the panicking masses.

The scene immediately cut to another square, full of people in transit from one place to the next, knowing nothing but where they are going. In it featured the same woman, now with a dirtied white sling wrapped ‘round her right arm, disgruntled, fastly striding her her destination with a heavy bag in hand.

“Miss Goldman!” Leon, far away but closing the gap, yelled as he ran up to her. He stopped and rested his palms on his knees, catching his breath.

She eyed him up and down, cautiously, raising an eyebrow and clutching her bag. “I am Emma Goldman, yes. Who are you?”

He straightened his back up, shifting on his feet and tripping over his words, not unlike a little child. “Czolgosz. Er, um - Leon Czolgosz. I would. Would like to. I would like to speak. With you.” He took off his cap, clearing his throat, and began rubbing it with his fingers.

“I’m sorry, but I have a train to catch.” She nodded, picking her bag up.

“Miss Goldman, I. I saw your speech in the hall last night!” He interjected, taking a step forward, then retreating with two more steps back. “It was. It was, ah. Very. Very good.” Even with the lowering of his head, the blush spreading across his face could be seen clear as glass.

She smiled, putting her bag down once again. “Thank you.” Men and women passed by, not angry, but a bit irritated as they swerved to miss the two, like a family of ducks clogging up a highway. “The cossacks of the Chicago Police Department seem to feel otherwise.” A movement towards her sling brought their message loud and clear.

“Well, they are the vilest scum in the world!” He put forth his fist in the air, nearly accidentally sending his knuckle into a robust man’s chin. This immediately ignited a flurry of insults from the man as well as an avalanche of alarmed apologies from Leon.

Emma chuckled, covering her mouth, watching the man furiously stomp off in a frenzy as she remarked, “You haven’t seen much of the world, have you, Mr. Czolgosz?”

“Er. No.” Sheepishly, he put his cap back on and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, actually!” He beamed, clasping his hands together and counting off his journeys. “I have been to Buffalo! To Rochester, to Cleveland! To -”

“And when were you in Cleveland?” She interjected, her face no longer bearing the same gentleness it had just a moment ago.

“Last week.” A breath, then a shy smile.

“And Rochester?” She picked up her bag, then took a step forward.

“W-Week before.” He didn’t move, but instead grabbed at his cap again. 

“And the week before you were in Buffalo.” She tightened her grip on the bag, then looked up, eyes piercing into his face. “You have been following me. Why? To spy on me? To inform on my associates?” At this time, all within earshot were paying attention to them, all geared up to witness a fight. Leon was finally stepping back, but with each step she took two, and soon she was right below him, arm ready to swing the heavy bag into his gut. He glanced around, then blurted out.

“Miss Goldman, I am in love with you!” As soon as they had started, the crowds continued on their way, some with adoring little ‘awws’, but most passed by, suddenly uninterested.

 

“I am. I am in. In love. With you.” Hunched up, he appeared embarrassed and anxious but with nowhere to go.

“Ah.” She blinked, stepping back from her encroachment and softening her body. “That is different.” An eager grin shined on Leon’s face, a little puppy dog looking for love. “Thank you, Mr Czolgosz. Leon.” She puffed her chest up and looked softly into his eyes. “Unfortunately, I do not have time to be in love with you.” A sigh, a quick fix of her glasses. “I am speaking tonight in Saint Louis, and if I miss my train, the cossacks there will have to find somebody else’s arm to break.” She once again gestured to the sling on her arm, nodded, and began to set off. “Goodbye Leon.”

“Miss Goldman, wait!” He cried, reaching out, breathless and scared. “Miss Goldman, I am alone. With no one, with nothing.”

The Balladeer immediately felt Leon’s hand curl around and hold his own. He looked, and it was right there, in those murky brown eyes - both grieving in the nostalgia of loneliness and desperately happy that it was no longer the case. 

The screen Leon took a step forward. “I am a grown man, twenty seven, and yet I have no life.” He started to tear up, fingers running madly around the cap. He somehow knew - this was his last chance for any sort of accompaniment. “What do I know? Nothing. What have I learned? Nothing. What have I done? Nothi - !”

“I’ll tell you what you have done!” Emma stepped forward, took his sleeve, and dragged him down, away from any gossiping ears, into a tight alleyway. “Since you were a little boy of five or six you have permitted yourself to be brutalized and beaten down, brought to the brink of madness by despair and desperation -” she stomped her foot and pointed her finger, wholeheartedly lecturing, just like her speeches. “- so that other men, men no worthier than you, might live their lives in ease and comfort!” 

That must be where he got it from, the Balladeer thought, still looking at Leon. He was transfixed on the screen, entrenched deep in the heated moment. 

“This is what you have done. This is what they have done to you.” Lowering her voice, Emma dropped her bag and crossed her arms, or, as much as a woman with a broken arm in a sling could do. “Am I right?” A cock of the head. A turn of the lips. Without hesitation, he nodded vigorously, unable to speak, entranced.

“Come, Leon.” She lifted her arm, beckoning him forward. He took a tiny step towards her. “Come.” She repeated, the gap between them still more than a meter wide. Another small step, closing in no more space than what was noticeable. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she leaned to him, grappled his arm, and pulled him in. They were no more than a few inches away. Cupping her hand, she smiled, proceeding to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. “You are a beautiful young man.” 

It was a few moments of intense shock, locking every joint in his body, before doubt settled in. He shook his head, pulling away. “No, no. I am coarse and ugly.” 

“No!” Once again, her hand was closed, a finger pointing. She started, slow and stern. “Your life has made you beautiful! Your suffering has made you fine.” Emma turned, lowering her hand with a sigh. “I give my love freely, Leon. If I had time, I would give it to you.” Leon looked ecstatic, ready for a heartfelt confession, a state where he could love and be loved in return. Here it came!

“But I don’t.” Oh. His face fell as she opened the bag and began digging deeply into it. 

“So instead I will give you something else. Something you can embrace with more passion than you can any woman!” Out she went with a piece of paper, the paper she was holding the day before. It wasn’t crisp, far from it, it was well-worn, but it held a sort of seeping sentimentality - like a river brilliantly barraging against its dam. 

Opening his hand, she slipped it in, cover first, - reading ‘Principles of Anarchism - Where a Man is Truly a Man'. He looked between Emma and the pamphlet, then asked, tentatively, “What is this?” 

“An idea, Leon. An idea of social justice.” She beamed, hands clasped together with a dreamy expression dancing deep in her eyes. “Of a world in which men are not merely created equal, but allowed to live that way.” 

“And this is your idea?” Without speaking, they both agreed to meander out of the alleyway and out into the open, fresher air hitting their face, like a renewing energy of hope.

“Not mine alone, but mine.” High above them, church bells rang, clanging and reverberating through the sky, floating down to the square. This prompted Emma to glance at her watch, jolting up, as she hurriedly grabbed at her things. “Good God! I have to go.”

Leon was already assisting, zipping the bag up and checking her over for any patches of dirt she may have attracted during their talk. She took herself in, grasped his hand firmly, then with a solid handshake, she was off. “Goodbye, Leon.” She called out, diligently filing in with the other passers-by.

He looked torn, desperately wanting to say something, but unsure of what exactly. And yet, he called out. “If you please - I would like to walk you to the station.” She peered back, glasses halfway down her nose. “May I?” His voice was light, thin, barely strong enough to carry itself over to her.

She grinned, stepping closer. “It’s a free country.” Leon didn’t get the jest, as he, looking hurt as ever, spewed out quiet apologies, nodding his head and pulling away. Thankfully, she grabbed at his arm, pulling him in. “That was a joke.”

“Oh.” A moment of silence, then, they both chuckled, growing into a boisterous laughter, Emma leaning on his arm. He let out a breath, then asked again, even softer than before. “May I?” 

She looked lovingly into his face. Here was a man who felt so deeply. Who could take her word and make it gospel. A perfect soldier against the army of the entitled. He would make an ideal anarchist. She nodded. “You may.” She was about to go with him, but he began reaching for the handle of the bag, presumably to carry it, which she swiftly brought away.

“They make us servants, Leon.” She raised her torso, chest up high. “We do not make servants of each other.” Nevertheless, he persisted. Leon, never breaking eye contact with her, wrapped his fingers around the handle - silently asking for permission. With a small gasp, she relented, both standing up to full height, and striding off, carrying herself like a powerful goddess, and him bounding after her, in complete and utter elation.

The film glowed bright, then brighter, then sputtered out, the fading golden light leaving a dark, near-empty room.

They both fixed on the screen, taking in all they had just seen. The Balladeer chose to break the moment.

“Is that all?”  
“What?”  
“Did she tell you. To do… this?”  
“What? No!” Leon was quick to defend. “She would never - she only taught me that free societies can help me. Can help us.” Lurching forward, he grasped at the other’s hand, pleading eyes bearing into him. “She did nothing to encourage me. She -”

“Then what did?” A dull quiet settled over them. Suddenly, one last piece of paper flew out of the pamphlet - a section of a newspaper article, meticulously cut out from its place to preserve every plucked word. It landed in the Balladeer’s lap, just turned enough for him to read the title: ITALIAN KING ASSASSINATED BY ANARCHIST GROUP, COUNTRY IN AN UPROAR.

“Read it.”  
“Leon, I -”  
“Please, Jugnatz. Please.” Begrudgingly, he proceeded to do so, the article detailing a man claiming his deed was for the betterment of the people - the tyrant king planned on taking away the rights of the poor, and he could not allow such a heinous crime.

“You see? Miss Goldman didn’t tell me! But I can’t allow this man to hurt people! I can’t allow him to put in. To put in new rules that will cause innocent workers to, to -” He paused, catching himself before he broke down again. “I don’t want what happened to you to ever happen again. No one should go through what we did.”

The room went back to its normal state, quiet with only a hint of a hum breaking through, for a minute or so, both Leon and the Balladeer thinking, feeling, processing.

“Leon.”  
“Yes?”  
“You missed me?”  
“Of course. I couldn’t. I couldn’t think of going on. Going on living without you.”  
“And you still feel the same way?”  
“Of course. Always. I would do anything for you.”  
“Anything?”  
“Anything.” 

A few moments passed.

“Then, I need it.”  
“What?”  
“Your gun.”  
“What do you -”  
“Please, Leon. Please.” He held out a hand, expectant, hoping. Without another word, the trade-off was complete - the extreme thought for a comforting love. 

“What are you going to -” He was cut off by the sound of a snap - the Balladeer’s snap. In an instant, the clipped paper snaked around the gun, twisting, squeezing the life out of it as each individual nut and bolt and plate of metal broke apart until it was nothing more than a pile of parts, powerful as a whole but worthless and destitute alone. 

“No!” Leon grabbed for it, whatever it was now, but the Balladeer was faster, cupping his hands around his cheeks and bringing the two face to face. “Why? I was going to help you! I was going to help them! I just - I just wanted to - !”

“Leon. Leon, look at me. Look at me! Breathe!” The hands stayed in position as he breathed with him, looking directly into his eyes in an attempt to calm him down. “You are not going to do this. You will never do this - if you love loved her, if you loved me, if you really want to help the workers, you need to listen to me.”  
“But, Ju-”  
“Okay?” 

Leon faltered, all the steam going into his rebuttal now gone, replaced by a tired will-to-listen.

“I don’t know, and, frankly, don’t care what that Carnie promised you. I just know that what you are planning will not help. You will not help people remember me. You will not give anarchists or her a good name. You will not improve your life or anyone else's. All you will do is cause a few days panic. Then poof. You are gone. Your idea is gone. And all that will be left is the legacy of a crazed madman mowing down a martyr. 

“Do you want that? If he really is that bad, he will prove it. People, not just you, but every oppressed man, woman, and child will rise up and demand change. They will change the world for the better. That’s what America is! People looking out for each other, people making good for each other, people loving each other! Don’t you see that?”

“I want your help.” He moved his hands from the cheeks, holding Leon’s. “Help me show each and every one of these misguided Americans that the dream is still there. Every step of the way.”

Silently, a ‘yes’ passed between the two as the Balladeer grinned a wide, engaging smile. 

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Slowly and surely, the two picked themselves up, over the seats, over the wreckage of the gun, out to the foyer.

As they were walking, he knew, he swore he heard the Carnie’s chuckle (was he actually here? was he the one projecting on the screen? how much did he see?), bouncing, bellowing off of the walls. He was about to say something, but it didn’t appear as if Leon heard any of it. Perhaps it was just his imagination.

They opened the glass doors together, a cool, fresh breeze hitting their faces, wiping away the regrets, the fears, any doubt. It was going to be alright. They were going to win.

He reasoned that little, if any, time had truly passed, as a completely exasperated Booth was currently chewing out a sheepish Moore - going on about ‘how could you even think about do that?’ and ‘you set the dunking booth on fire! water! on fire!’

Both Leon and the Balladeer laughed, happy with each other as they continued on to a more secluded area of the Carnival.

They were close. More than close. Closer than they should have been. Their faces just an inch or two away. A moment passed. He breathed.

“Leon, I -” He was interrupted, of course, by a gentle kiss overtaking his senses, the smooth texture of the other’s lips intermingling with his own. It felt like paradise, as if they were both suspended two-or-three-hundred feet in the air, defying gravity, flying higher and higher up into the night sky, where the faerie light would never dare to shine so blindingly bright. Where they were far away from any demanding demons or serpent-tongued southerners. Where blue lights would dance in the sky, accompanied by a brilliant orchestra of stars, illuminating the two as the rose out of sight.

But, he thought, grounding himself, he had a job to to. He had to save as many of these people as he could. He had to stop the Carnie from damning any more souls to an eternal ‘funhouse of dreams’. He had to get himself and Leon to a new existence, to a new plane, to just get out of here. For now, at least, he was fine with being Jugnatz. No, not just fine - happy. He was happy. He was free. He had one more ally for the cause. And as he looked up, past the faerie lights, which burned your eyes, past the carnival, which clouded your mind, he swore he saw a single star, softly shimmering in an otherwise silent sky.


End file.
